by Rainer Maria Rilke
Center of all centers, core of cores, almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet—all this universe, to the furthest stars all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.
Now you feel how nothing clings to you; your vast shell reaches into endless space, and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow. Illuminated in your infinite peace,
a billion stars go spinning through the night, blazing high above your head. But in you is the presence that will be, when all the stars are dead.
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